Days and Rain

DAYS AND RAIN.


And she bounded up the cast iron steps that formed a squared spiral around the skeletal ironwork lift shaft which led up the core of the building. The only light came from the grimy dull windows, which all looked out on one direction, although they were universally caked with grit and dust to the extent that little of the city outside could be seen. If the dirt wasn’t enough, the view was furthbscubscured by the hammering rain which belted against the building, rattling its bones and washing its old brick skin.

The fires of raw erotic passion which forged the links that bound the girl to the only occupant of this place burned white hot and the tale of their meeting and the blistering liquid passion they discovered in each other is a tale for another time. She scampered up the steps careless of the slippery wet iron surfaces which could skid a misplaced foot or break a colliding shin easily. The building was old and still largely the same as it had been when it was built in Victorian times centuries ago. It had served many purposes, from office block to apartment block to hotel, and currently it was the residence of a sole occupant, or at least the top level was. The four floors leading up to it were now derelict and largely uninhabitable. Water flowed freely down the walls and across once-pristine carpets. The top floor at least was dry and still in good shape. She crossed from the stairwell around a square landing that surrounded an open drop right to the bottom. The roof above was glazed in frosted white glass and once upon a time the hollow space from the roof to the ground floor, walled along one side by the lift shaft and stairs, provided a sense of spaciousness and natural light. Now the glass ceiling was cracked in places and dripped profusely, and the natural light was tainted green ande bye by the scum and algae growing on top.

She raced along the wooden flooring to the room she sought, the corner penthouse on the opposite side of the building from the stairwell. From the other side came the sound of a piano, playing a delightful lilting melody that seemed to go nowhere in particular. She unlocked the door with a key she had on a ring adorned with bright plastic decorations, most of them hearts. Once inside she walked straight down the short hall to the main room, from which extended a dining area in one direction and the bathroom\\bedroom in another. One wall of the room was taken up entirely with glass that seemed to ripple and pulse with rain lashing against it, and beyond a short ironwork balcony. Opposite the glass wall was a floor to ceiling case of books that were arranged according to some crazed pattern, it must have been large enough for a thousand books and at least two thousand were actually jammed in there. The room was dominated by a baby grand piano, at which a man sat, playing. He didn’t turn around as the girl entered, but began to sing in a slightly reedy voice. His singing was more speech set to music then anything, but his voice was deep cracked and interesting which made up for it.

“Satellite’s gone, way up to the skies,” he sang softly, playing a rising set of notes on the piano, “things like that drive…. me out of my mind,” a smattering more of music. The girl walked up behind him and draped her hands over his shoulders, stroking over his thin chest. He smiled and took his hands from the keyboard to lay over hers.
“What was that?” She asked.
“A song by Lou Reed, called ‘Satellite of Love’”.
“That’s a silly name for a song!”
“Oh come now, it’s no worse then some of the things I happen to know you listen to on your headset when you think I’m sleeping!”

She just laughed and hugged him, and kisses his cheek. He was old enough to look distinguished with brushed back grey hair and a wrinkled brow, she was considerably younger and delightful in her youthful vivacity. Everything about her was petite, compact. She looked almost like she had been made to a slightly smaller scale then the world. Despite the great age difference, or perhaps because of it and the contrast between them both, she loved him dearly and felt that love returned. He never asked her where it was she went to when she wasn’t running the various little errands he sent her on or if anyone would be worried where she was, and she never asked him why he never seemed to leave his high room. It was an arrangement of mutual respect for the things they did not wish to discuss with each other and it worked well for them both.

“You’re late,” he chided her teasingly, “did you get the things I asked you for?”
“Most of them. I had trouble getting candles, I think you’re the only person an-y-where,” she drew out that word to tease him, “who still uses them.”
“You got some though?”
“Yes. Don’t expect any change from the money you gave me though.” That was something of a sore point between them. He had once told her that she could keep the change when he sent her shopping, it was the reason he always gave her too much. She had always refused whenever it was brought up and always gave him exactly what was left after the purchases, to the penny.
“You know I don’t like the thought of you being out too late, if you can’t get everything then just leave it until tomorrow. Don’t get caught outside at night.”
“Oh, you just worry too much.”
“Have you seen the news? The riots are spreading north daily, the gangs are out in season again, I think I don’t worry enough!”
“No one believes the news.”
“No one wants to.” She just shrugged to that.

He smiled and tinkled a few notes on the piano. The discussion trailed off, it was only small talk. As their voices faded away to nothing he could not help but notice that her small chest was pressed firmly against his back and her breathing sounds near his ear were quick and excited. H pretended not to notice, until she actually began to gently rub herself against him. He swivelled around quickly on his piano stool and wrapped his arms around her. With a tiny squeal of glee she dropped into his lap and covered his laughing face with kisses. He stroked her back fondly.

“I was late getting here, you said,” she said.
“Mhmmm,” he agreed, “I said that.” There was a charge of emotion between them. He knew what was coming, as did she, but still they played the game. They loved the game.
“What are you going to do about it?”
“Why, what do you mean?” He grinned. She pulled away from him and backed away slowly, her hands casually stroking up her hips and over her stomach as she answered.
“Are you going to throw me down and whip me? Are you going to… spank me? Are you going to beat me and make me sorry?” She was smiling lightly, and deliberately she licked her lips.
“I do believe you are quite the most lustful, wicked, mischievous little girl I have ever encountered.” He replied slowly. She shivered and grinned even wider, cupping her hands under her little breasts and tapping them with her fingertips. She adored it when he said things like that to her, and had little difficulty in communicating to him how deep her adoration went.
“Answer my questions!” She giggled.
“I might do. It all depends.”
“On what?” She asked bluntly. He motioned at her with one hand vaguely.
“Take off your coat, and your shirt.”

She obeyed immediately, with a chuckle. Her coat was white with furred hems, and the tee-shirt under it bore some popular slogan he didn’t immediately recognise. She wore a brassiere which was a little hopeful, given her size. It was padded and pink. A size down and it would have suited her perfectly. She stood before him dressed only in faded trainers and jeans. He noted the jeans had little hearts running up the side of one leg. The girl really had a thing about hearts. He nodded at her,
“Those too,” he said, and she slipped off the jeans, roughly pulling her trainers off by stepping on her heels one at a time and yanking. Once the trainers were off she stepped clear of the jeans which were pooled around her ankles and stood there in her underwear. Her panties didn’t match the bra, they were white with a little bow-tie design at the front, which was cute. Her arms swung listlessly at her sides, almost coming to cover her front defensively but not quite making it. Shy but determined, she stood there before his eyes.
“And now?” She asked, trying to keep her voice level. He gazed at her and she bit her lip. She would do these little things, like biting her lip in that way, and she thought it was being erotic and seductive. She was a little young to be too good at it but he appreciated the effort. Besides, he found her entirely erotic enough in her vigorous devotion to hedonistic joy that sometimes left him breathless.

“Now,” he said, stroking his chin thoughtfully, “take off your underwear.” Again, she obeyed him immediately, with a smile. Then she was entirely naked, her bare body stood casually before him. She leant her weight on one leg, giving a delightful asymmetry to her body as one hip slouched and curved while the other rigidly held her weight. One hand rested on her outward curving hip, while the other toyed with her breast. She didn’t move, she knew how he liked to watch her sometimes.
“And now?” She asked again.
“You were right.”
“I was?”
“Yes, I am going to spank you. Come here.”

She stepped closer, slowly, and with delicate grace spread herself over his lap, bending herself over to present her bottom up to him. Obligingly, she reached back as she bent over and slipped down her panties. He stroked her fondly, and she shivered on her lap. Her back was slim and he cold feel the ridges of her spine clearly. He sighed softly and delivered a stinging slap straight to her cool buttocks, and she squealed. He slapped her twice more, by which time he could perceive a distinct redness and her skin was no longer cool.

Her cries had died down, and as he continued this discipline upon her body the quality of her replies to her punishment changed. She breathed in rapid pants and let out small noises from the back of her throat. When he pau and and flexed his aching fingers a little, she actually moved on his lap, wiggling her rear end playfully. He gave a sigh of genuine happiness and stroked her lovinglithoithout a word she righted herself and wrapped her arms around his neck, kissing him passionately. He knew there was real lust, and passion, and love in the kiss because it was careless and sloppy, her lips were wet and hot and pressed forcefully against him and he responded in kind. She pressed her face into the crook of his neck and breathed in his smell of oldp anp and cologne, and began to weep softly as he stroked her back and made hushing noises. Her shoulders shuddered and rolled and she convulsed with sobs as she cried happy tears into his shirt. Once again he was amazed by the sheer depth of raw emotion that she could contain in her.

They dined that night on beans, eggs, tomatoes and toast. He insisted on fresh eggs, the more expensive sort. He was the only person she knew who took such care over his food, he insisted everything be just so. Their meal was simple but expensive in its ingredients. After they had eaten he spread her, naked, over the table and applied cold, liquid cream to her body, sprinkling a few ripe strawberry halves over her. He plucked them from her skin one by one with a fork, and she shivered and squirmed as he took his pudding off her. Since this had caused something of a mess, they both bathed afterwards, taking turns to lay down in the hot steaming tub and be carefully, and thoroughly, washed. When they lay together in bed, wrapped up in crisp sheets, the warmth of the bath and each other, they kissed fondly and slept.

When the morning came, he asked her what she planned for the day. It was, in the code that exists between lovers, his way of asking her to stay with him, and she told him she had nothing to do which was her way of telling him that she would stay. They lay in bed and watched the morning news on his large wall-mounted screen. It was depressing as usual, but less so because there is only so much people can take in the morning and even the cold, impersonal news personages seemed to recognise this most human fact. To lighten the morning he reached for the remote and commanded the screen to display one of his collection of old films, a hobby of his. She sat up, leaning on her crossed ankles, bare as a button and watched curiously. It was old, one he had liked in his youth, an ancient anime. He had to explain to her, as he had several times before, the significance of certain things. She thought it looked crude and inaccurate, he thought it looked stylish and unsophisticated. She preferred the current computer generated stuff, which was practically photorealistic and, to his eyes, repellant. It was in these sorts of things, the differences between them that widened to a yawning gulf at times, that they found the tension and excitement of their relationship.

He made pancakes for breakfast, insisting on doing everything himself although he let her stick a finger in the mixing bowl to taste the batter. They ate quietly, and afterwards kissed again and again. It was raining outside, whether it was the same rain as yesterday still going or an altogether new rain neither knew and it really didn’t matter to them. Suddenly she pressed her tiny palms to the table and fixed him with a mischievous grin,
“Whip me.”
“What?”
“I want you to whip me, right now.”
“How do you know I have a whip?”
“I know you’ve got a whip somewhere, I know you.”
He just chuckled, and beckoned to her.

Exactly fifteen minutes later and she stumbled uncertainly over the floor. She stumbled because her arms were raised up high over her head. Her wrists were tied together and a slender length of rope led to a ring fixed in the ceiling. She was blindfolded and it wasn’t easy to keep her balance. It didn’t help that she had enormous difficulty keeping still. Her excitement was evident in the thin sheen of sweat gleaming on her bare skin and the shivers running through her. She could see nothing but she could hear acutely well as he walked around and around her, swishing something. Not knowing exactly where he was, or what he was preparing to use on her, made her all the more excited.

He flicked his wrist and switched her across the shoulder blades. A second after the thin rod impacted on her skin she actually felt it and gave out a surprised scream. Momentarily weak at the knees she sagged on the end of her rope, realising fully that she was to be whipped.

He whipped her thoroughly, until she was certain that her body was in flames and bleeding in massive gouts of blood. He was only just touching her with the rod, but bereft of sight she was unable to judge what was happening accurately and her lurid imagination made this torture far more intense. Tiny ridges of welts raised up in horizontal strips down her back and over her buttocks and the backs of her legs. She yelped and screamed, moaning and gasping like an animal as she writhed. She was a fish on a hook, a fox in a trap, helpless before him and his delicious cruelty. As she began to moan and whimper the caress of the whip turned to the caress of his hands and his tongue over her trembling form. The morning passed this way, and then the afternoon too. By the time he decided to release her, after she had begged him pitiably and solemnly, with that wicked gleam in her eye, they were both ready for another bath.

Evening, and rain. Perhaps it was still that same rainstorm, perhaps it was the evening directly after the tortures of the whip. In either case it mattered little to them once again. They lay on the wide bed, he stretched out and cradling the back of his head in his hands, she curled up and tracing idle patterns on his belly.
“I’m your dog,” she said.
“You’re far to pretty to be,” he replied.
“I m whe when you call I come running, I sit or stand or turn in circles, whatever you say.”
“You mean to say that you are well trained.”
“Yes.”
“I agree.”
“I love you.”
“I know.”
“Do you love me?”
“Yes.”
“How do I know that?”
He grinned and answered, “you’re my dog.”

The next day, or the day after and she told him sadly she had to go again, she had plans. In their private language this meant that she couldn’t stay any longer without trouble. He assumed that somewhere out there in that cruel world someone knew of her and would become concerned. He nodded sadly, and murmured that it was alright. He wrote out another list of things he would like her to get, and gave her money. He ruffled her hair and told her not to be late next time, with a wink. She turned at the door and waved, before racing off to wherever she went. He closed the door afterwards, and with a sigh wandered back toward the piano.

Sitting down, he threw his hands out to the keys and played a meaningless tune. Beside him, against the great glass windows of his home, the rain still battered and flung itself.

END.